Connect with us





Eating Habits: the Vedda and the Sociology Professor

by Chandra Arulpragasam

In 1950, the writer (an undergraduate at that time) undertook a sociological survey of the Veddas in the jungles of Wellassa and Bintenne in the Uva Province. This involved a trek of around 250 miles in the jungles of the Uva and Eastern Provinces., where few had ventured before. My Professor of Sociology at the University of Ceylon, Dr. Bryce Ryan, came to the start of the jungle trail to see me off. Just as we were sitting down to lunch, a Vedda happened to pass on the trail. I engaged him in conversation while Professor Ryan started eating at his picnic table close by. The Vedda with long matted and unkempt hair was naked except for a skimpy loin-cloth and an axe on his shoulder. When he saw the Professor eating with his fork and knife, he shook his head disapprovingly and spat disgustedly, saying: ‘Look at that white man: see how he eats!’

The Professor sensing that something disparaging was being said about him, asked with curiosity: ‘What’s he saying’? So I imitated the Vedda’s reply, translating literally and spitting appropriately. The Professor, now agog, asked excitedly: ‘Why does he say that? Why does he say that?’ To which the Vedda replied: ‘See: he eats with some kind of instrument! How does he know how many other people have eaten with that same thing before’- and spat again in disgust. The Professor rejoined excitedly: ‘So what does he do? What does he do instead?’ To which the Vedda proudly replied: ‘I eat with my right hand, which nobody else can use. I don’t use my left hand because I know what it does’! What really surprised me later was the fervour with which the Professor defended his culinary habits – as fervently as the Vedda did his!

 Informed by this insight, during my travels abroad later, my eyes were always open to the eating habits of different peoples. For instance, in Japan, when a bowl of rice is served, a pair of chopsticks is included. The chopsticks made of pinewood are joined together at one end like Siamese twins, thus ensuring that no one else had used them before. It struck me however, that these chopsticks, having been cut out of pine trees, dragged through the forest floor, then cut by a machine and falling on the factory floor, could not be all that clean! But I then realized that I was just trying to justify my eating with my right hand (because I know what my left hand does!) as being ‘superior’ to eating with chopsticks! And so it goes on, with each culture doing its own thing, insisting all the while that it is the best!



Saying ‘No’, when we mean ‘Yes’


I became conscious of a certain Sri Lankan mannerism, on a two-hour ferry-boat journey to the isles of Capri and Ischia in Italy, around 1968. We were on one side of a large ferry, while the bar was on the other side, about 60 feet away. Since I was going to get myself a beer, I asked my wife whether she wanted a drink. She indicated ‘Yes’ with a sway of her head from side to side, in Sri Lankan style. So I crossed to the bar and ordered the two drinks. The barman, hardly looking up from washing the glasses, asked me briskly: ‘You are from Ceylon, Sir?’ I almost dropped with surprise. First, hardly any Italian knew at that time where Ceylon was – or even that it in fact existed. But secondly, how could he have guessed my nationality just by looking at me? Surprised, I asked him how he could have guessed this so quickly. Smilingly he replied: ‘I saw you asking your wife if she would have a drink, and she shook her head from side to side, signifying “No”. But then you came across and ordered a drink for her – which means that she said “Yes”. The only place where shaking your head to indicate ‘No’ means ‘Yes’ is in Ceylon!’

I was surprised, first, because I myself had not noticed this seeming ‘contradiction’ before. But secondly, I could not resist asking him how he could possibly have known this. He replied smiling, that he had been a prisoner of war in Ceylon during World War II in the 1940s – and remembered this Ceylonese trait even 25 years later! So Sri Lanka remains the country, where we shake our heads, understood elsewhere to signify ‘No’, when we really mean ‘Yes’!

As a matter of interest, the barman also told me that the happiest years of his life were spent ‘in prison’ in Ceylon, roaming the hills of Diyatalawa where the Italian prisoners were supposed to be confined! The British must have been confident that their prisoners would not escape from their haven (heaven) to go back to war-torn Europe!



Women Not Showing Their Legs


In Italy today, women at the age of 50 are usually slim, elegant and well groomed. This was not the case in Italy in the 1960’s when women over 50 (especially in the south) often had a ‘pasta roll’ around their waist, usually dressed in black dresses as a sign of mourning for some long departed family member. My wife, on the other hand, usually dressed in her full sari with a choli blouse, which coyly showed a bit of midriff. When visiting a supermarket, this was the cause of some consternation among two elderly Italian ladies, modestly dressed in baggy black gowns. After talking agitatedly among themselves, one of the ladies, not being able to contain herself any longer, came across to my wife and said: ‘Pardon me, Sigñora, but your midriff is ‘nuda’ (in Italian: ‘nuda’, means ‘nude’). My wife taken aback and nonplussed, looked down at her midriff and asked in surprise: ‘What’s wrong with my midriff?’ The old lady, even more agitated, replied that it was ‘nuda’. At this point my wife looked at the old lady’s legs and said ‘Sigñora, but your legs are ‘nuda’/showing. (In South Asia at that time, it was considered immodest for a woman, especially an older woman, to show her legs: but this was obviously not so in western society). The old lady, equally taken aback, looked down at her legs and said: ‘What’s wrong with my legs?’ And my wife replied: ‘They are nuda’. The old lady was puzzled.


Not knowing what to make of this weird exchange, she walked back to her companion for more animated discussion! We were amused at this cross-cultural exchange: of two cultures speaking across each other, but not to each other, in terms that neither could understand.


It is equally interesting to note changes within the same culture over time. On a typical Italian or western street today, girls walk around with whole midriffs exposed, showing also their belly buttons, suitably embellished with rings!

I wonder what the Italian old ladies would say to this now!


This also varies across cultures: the exposure of female legs is either a matter of good taste, sexiness or shame, depending on the culture concerned. In the Indian sub-continent (including Nepal, India, Pakistan, Bangladesh and Sri Lanka) it is not decent for women to expose their legs, least of all above the knee. On the other hand, it is customary, fashionable and even sexy in the western world to do so. Going farther afield, in China, one notes that legs were not considered sexy at all – neither a matter of pride or shame. Traditionally in China (before Mao’s time) women wore the cheongsam, a long dress with a slit all the way up the thigh. On the other hand, these same Chinese women were shy to show their necks, favoring high collars so that their necks were not exposed! This is in contrast to women in the Indian sub-continent, who have no problem in showing their necks, but do have a problem in showing their thighs!  


The Mark of a ‘Mahathaya’


In the 1960s in Sri Lanka, anyone who wore trousers was addressed as ‘Mahathaya’. This was taken for granted, despite the movement after 1956 to use the national dress. However, it was NOT the wearing of trousers that made one a ‘Mahathaya’. The trousers only marked a person as belonging to the English-speaking ‘elite’ – which is what entitled that person to wear trousers in the first place. Conversely, in those days, if one could not speak English, one would never presume to wear trousers! The actual equation went something like this: wearing trousers = English-speaking = higher class = Mahathaya. The trousers were a badge of honour, defining one as belonging to the English-speaking ‘elite’, which signified that the person was of a higher socio-economic status, giving him the ‘right’ to wear trousers and to be addressed as ‘Mahathaya’. Conversely, a man wearing a sarong would not usually be addressed as ‘Mahathaya’ in those days – except in certain specific contexts.


I was to see the absurdity of this equation, applied in the same way, but in a different country. When in Delhi, a Sri Lankan Embassy friend offered to give me a ride to an international meeting. Having lost our way, my friend drew up to a cyclist, to ask the way. The cyclist was a simple man, wearing the long trousers/pantaloons habitually worn by north Indians. My friend spoke in English, but the man replied in Hindi, saying (probably) that he could not understand English, and went on repeating the same. Exasperated and annoyed, my Sri Lankan friend turned to me and said: ‘This fellow is pretending to know English, when he clearly does not!’ The poor man had been going about his business, in no way pretending that he knew English, but was falsely accused of doing so! The problem was obviously not with the man, but in the mind of the Sri Lankan beholder, who had assumed that the man knew English only because he had ‘dared’ to wear trousers!


This was the situation around 1970. Things have obviously changed since then: young men, even non-English speakers now wear trousers, while it is equally or more respectable to wear the national dress, as done by the Prime Minister himself!



Saying Goodbye, the Sri Lankan Way


In most European countries, there is a way of expressing parting or departure, while expecting to meet again. This is conveyed by the French ‘au revoir’ or the Italian ‘arrividerci’, which mean: ‘till we meet (see each other) again’, In Sri Lanka, visitors would say that they are going, while swaying their heads from side to side, saying ‘we will come’(api ennang) – even when they are actually going!


One notices two things in this ritual. First, instead of saying ‘then I shall go’, they will say ‘I shall come’. In Sinhala this is expressed as: ‘gihing ennang’; but this is often abbreviated to ‘Ennang’ (I shall come/return). Likewise in Tamil, one would say ‘poitu vaarane’, which is usually abbreviated to ‘Vaarane’ – which literally means in both languages: ‘I shall come’. The idea, therefore, is the same as the French ‘au revoir’ or the Italian ‘arrividerci’.


More quaint, however, is the ritualistic dance, whereby a departing couple would turn again at the door and sway their heads from side to side, saying, or not even saying: ‘Then we will come’. The significance of this movement seems to be that of seeking permission to go, which goes beyond the French or Italian versions of the same: a politeness of seeking permission to leave. In fact we are actually saying: ‘I shall go and come, Okay?’, thus seeking consent for one’s departure.


To a foreigner, this repeated ritual would seem strange. When leaving, a Sri Lankan couple would tilt their heads from side to side and then get up to go, saying ‘api ennang’ (we shall come). Halfway through the door, they would again shake their heads from side to side, like marionettes, before they finally leave!


All this is avoided by the traditional Sinhala and Tamil mode of greeting/parting -by bringing the hands together in the form of worship. What is indicative is the intentional non-touching of the body: there are no hugs or touchy-feely manifestations in South Asian partings – a special merit in these days of Covid! This is also seen in the Indian ‘namaste’, which is said to mean: “I salute the God within you, which is also within me” – marking a soul-to-soul salutation, which should be good for the soul!

Continue Reading
Click to comment

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *


Rev Fr. Eugene Herbert’s loss should result in breaking down societal imbalances



The river we step in is not the river we stand on

By B Nimal Veerasingham

Years ago, when visiting New Orleans, Louisiana, I found myself wandering through the sprawling campuses of Loyola University. It is not far from the mighty Mississippi river flowing almost 6,000 km and economically powering significant parts of US Upper Midwest. In an unassuming quite corner under a well branched shady tree I noticed a memorial structure commemorating the killing of eight people in El Salvador, including six Jesuit priests in 1989. The six priests were also professors at the university of Central America in El Salvador at that time.

Peace memorial

This May, as per Loyola’s ‘Maroon’, at the memorial event held at the Peace Quad at Loyola university New Orleans, now dedicated as a memorial to this tragedy, Prof Alvaro Alcazar addressed the gathering. ‘The colonial power that is still very much in place in Latin America has created a ‘faith’ that is blind to or silent about injustice. It was this faith that inspired the Jesuit’s activism, but it cost them their lives’.The involvement of US in this tragedy was also addressed by Prof. Susan Weisher something the United States has never taken accountability for.

US Foreign Policy

The many contradictions and positivity of US foreign policy and its vast turns and switches in reaching many parts of the world is like the mighty Mississippi that prowls almost through or parts of 32 US States. The depth and power of this vast river cannot be estimated by mere width and length. Hurricane Catarina breaching the dikes nearly destroyed the entire city of New Orleans.

Fr Eugene Herbert memorial

Early this year a memorial statue of Rev Fr. Eugene Herbert SJ was declared opened by Rt Reverend Ponniah Joseph, Bishop of Batticaloa in the outskirts of Batticaloa town right by the shores of Batticaloa lagoon. The statue was placed midway between the Batticaloa town, where he lived and taught, and the town of Eravur, where he ‘disappeared’ along with one of his students at the Eastern Technical Institute, where he was a Director. He was on his way on the scooter to arrange a safe way for the nuns trapped in a convent in the nearby town of Valaichchenai engulfed by ethnic riots.

Rev Fr Eugene Herbert was born in Jennings Louisiana. He joined the Jesuits on 14 Aug. 1941, while still in his late teens. He volunteered to join the ‘Ceylon Mission’ and arrived in Sri Lanka in 1948. As in the traditions of Jesuits as providers of high-quality education from their founding of their first school in 1548, Rev Fr Herbert served particularly in two schools in the East, St. Josephs College Trincomalee and St. Michael’s College Batticaloa. It is well known that Education in the Jesuit tradition is a call to human excellence. It develops the whole person from intellect and imagination to emotions and conscience. It approaches academic subjects holistically, exploring the connections among facts, questions. Insights, conclusions, problems and solutions. It has succeeded in a variety of cultures because it adapts to the context of the learner.


Rev Fr. Herbert was a multi-talented genius excelling in music, science, technical studies, vocational studies and to be outdone of it all, in the basketball courts. In all disciplines, he brought a stricter structure that is besides excelling in the fundamentals, incorporating situational strategies encompassing critical thinking and adaptation. This was greatly visible none other than in the basketball courts where he injected exuberance and counter strategies to conventional wisdom. Saint Michael’s College Batticaloa up until his arrival in 1974 just was crawling in all Island Championships more so maintaining the status-quo. But Rev Fr Herbert revolutionised the outcome when Saint Michael’s started winning All Island Championships almost in all age groups against much more resourced Colombo schools.

Excellence in Basketball

Human excellence as we all know is not rocket science but striving to be the best with practice, discipline and endurance. But Rev Fr. Herbert’s presence provided the boys from the East who often lacked a concentrated leadership with clear and precise roadmap. The structural imbalance whether it be not so well built or barefooted at matches, didn’t determine the outcome. Rev Fr, Herbert provided energy and leadership both morally and corporally to the boys of the East who faced systemic roadblocks by not getting the direction and leadership. This was further evidenced by Rev Fr. Herbert’s active and emotional coaching that led the College teams to ignore opponent’s big city environments and large support base, but to keep concentrated on the final execution, the championship.

The referees in matches, where Saint Michael’s played paid greater attention to their decisions something that became standard when dealing with someone who knew the rulebook top to bottom. Rev Fr. Herbert quite often, if not in all matches, where St. Michaels College played could be seen challenging the referees for their inaccurate or missed calls. He always carried a basketball rulebook and could be seen feverishly waving the exact page of the rule and exclaims at top pitch when the referees failed to observe especially when the game was heated, and the difference between was swinging by one or two points.

Reaching the stars

I can remember that Rev Fr. Herbert once refused to participate in a Consolation Finals of a tournament. The team wanted at least to bring home a Consolation Finals Trophy, having failed to reach the finals. Rev Fr, Herbert looked at it differently. ‘We came here for nothing else but for the Championship trophy. Now that we couldn’t, we are catching the 8.00 PM night train tonight back to Batticaloa – and by the way, the practice for the next tournament will begin tomorrow evening, be on time’.

Rev Fr. Herbert’s humanity was visible in practically everything he exemplified, calculating the speed of the travelling train to explaining the mechanism of automobiles and the melodies from his clarinet. Between the matches and practices in Colombo he said mass at the Jesuit residence at Bambalapitiya. As teenagers with expectations we got confused sometimes with his message from the pulpit. ‘We strive to become the best and win. But at times that is not possible, and we have to accept defeat gracefully. But we have to rise again learning from our mistakes’.On another occasion, the security person refused to allow us to sleep on the floor of an enclosed classroom.

The train was late, and it was late in the evening; there was no one to instruct the security to open the classroom. He was ready to allow only the priest to the reserved quarter upstairs. ‘I will stay with the team and do not need any special arrangement,’ said Rev Fr without blinking, sleeping the entire night with us on the ground of an open but roofed half basketball-court, using his cassock as the bedsheet.

Rev Fr. Herbert exemplified through his life the true meaning of his calling and forging a future full of hope to a population that was at the receiving end of things for a longest while.

Last letter

In one of his last letters to his fellow Jesuit in New Orleans he wrote,’ Enough for our trials. The Lord continues to take care of us. I had really planned to write to USAID for another grant. We are running rehabilitation courses for ex-militants and other youth. Every four months we train 20 boys in welding, 20 in refrigeration repairs and 25 in house wiring. Every six months we train 15 in radio and TV repair. This is in addition to our regular three -year course in general mechanical trades’.

‘Pray for us. God willing the current instability and disturbances will be changed by the time I write again. We are used to vast fluctuations in fortune’.

Rev Fr. Herbert’s letter foretells several aspects of humanity that he was called upon to uphold.

The US continues to provide resources to ensure economic wellbeing, stability and peaceful existence across the Globe. The rule of law cannot be simply behavioral codes or identifying the cause or the culprit but ensuring resources and direction for the citizenry in general to break the cycle and rise above injustice. The rule of law cannot be applied differently to different set of people or on a best effort basis.

Breaking down societal imbalances

El Salvador and Sri Lanka were victims of a vicious violent cycle, where Jesuits lost their lives in obeying to their calls from above in their attempt to remake what it ideally should be. Many lost their lives in these cycles of hatred and violence both ordinary and clergy, including my well-liked and ever smiling classmate Rev Fr Savarimuthu Selvarajah. Fr Herbert’s disappearance galvanizes the distrust in our own destiny; many thousands were killed by fellow citizens than in the nearly 500 years of combined occupation by the foreign colonial powers.

The mighty Mississippi River, which travels almost 6,000 km is hardly comparable to a mere 56 km-long Batticaloa lagoon. Yet the son who was born on the shores of Mississippi became the true son by the shores of the Batticaloa lagoon.

This August 15th marks the 32nd anniversary of Rev Fr. Eugene Herbert’s ‘disappearance’. Ironically, at the time of his disappearance he was a year less a day from celebrating his Golden Jubilee in joining the Jesuits (14th August 1941). No one has been brought to date to justice or rather under the clauses of the ‘rule of law’. The one who held the rulebook up above his head is still denied justice.Batticaloa and the entire Sri Lanka lost one of its true sons, and he just happened to be born in the United States of America.


Continue Reading


Vijaya Nandasiri : Losing it in laughs



By Uditha Devapriya

Vijaya Nandasiri left us six years ago. The epitome of mass market comedy in Sri Lanka, Nandasiri belonged to a group of humourists, which included Rodney Warnapura and Giriraj Kaushalya, who redefined satire in the country. Nandasiri’s aesthetic was not profound, nor was it subtle. It was not aimed at a particular segment. Indeed, there was nothing elitist or pretentious about it; if you could take to it, you took to it. It was hard not to laugh at him, it was hard not to like him. Indeed, it was hard not to sympathise with him.

In the movies, Sri Lanka’s first great humourist was Eddie Jayamanne. Typically cast as the servant or bumpkin, Jayamanne could never let go of his theatrical roots. More often than not his laughs targeted a particular segment, so much so that when Lester Peries cast him as the father of the hero’s lover in Sandesaya, he still seemed stuck in those movies he had made and starred in with Rukmani Devi. Many years later he was cast as a close friend of the protagonist in Kolamba Sanniya, in many ways Sri Lanka’s equivalent of It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World. Even there, he could not quite escape his origins.

In Kolamba Sanniya, Jayamanne played opposite Joe Abeywickrema. Hailing from a different background, more rural than suburban, Abeywickrema had by then become our greatest character actor. Dabbling in comedy for so long, he found a different niche after Mahagama Sekara cast him in Thunman Handiya and D. B. Nihalsinghe featured him as Goring Mudalali in Welikathara. Yet he could never let go of his comic garb. Cast for the most as an outsider in the cities and the suburbs – of whom the epitome has to be the protagonist of Kolamba Sanniya – Abeywickrema discovered his élan in the role of the man who falls into a series of absurd situations, but remains unflappably calm no matter what.

There is nothing profoundly or intellectually funny in Kolamba Sanniya. Like It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World, the humour emerges from the characters’ imperfections and foibles: their way of looking at the world, their accents, their lack of polish and elegance. The dialogues are not convincing, and some of the situations – like the hero’s family discovering a bidet for the very first time – are downright silly, if not condescending. What strengthens the story is Joe Abeywickrema’s performance; specifically, his ability to convince us that, despite the situations he is being put through, he can stand on his own. Like the protagonist of Punchi Baba, left to take care of an abandoned baby, he is helpless but not lacking control. He often makes us think he’s losing it, but then gets back on track.

Vijaya Nandasiri was cut from a different cloth. In many respects he was Abeywickrema’s descendant, yet in many others he differed from him. Whereas Abeywickrema discovered his niche playing characters who could conceal the absurdity of the situations they were in, Nandasiri’s characters could only fail miserably. Abeywickrema convinced us that he was in control; Nandasiri could not. As Rajamanthri, the politician who for most of us epitomised the silliness and stupidity of our brand of lawmakers, he frequently parrots out that he’s an honest man. Abeywickrema could say the same thing and get away with it. Nandasiri could not: when he says he’s honest, you knew at once that he was anything but.

Nandasiri revelled in having no self-respect even when we ascribed to him some sense of honour and dignity. In Nonawarune Mahathwarune the ubiquitous Premachandra flirts with the woman next door (Sanoja Bibile), though we don’t get why the latter never returns his affections. As Senarath Dunusinghe in Yes Boss, the situation is reversed: he has to suffer another man flirting with his wife, the issue being that the man happens to be his employer who doesn’t know that they are married. The whole plot pivots on two things: the fact that his boss doesn’t like him, and the fact that he has to disguise himself as an older husband of his own wife to conceal their marriage from his boss.

In his own special way, Nandasiri went on to represent our contempt for womanisers, cuckolds, and politicians, by turning them into easily recognisable and easily mockable stereotypes. In Nonawarune Mahathwarune he was the womaniser, in Yes Boss he was the cuckold – though his wife only pretends to give in to their employer’s advances – and as Rajamanthri, easily the most recognisable comic figure here during the past 20 years, he was the politician. It was as Rajamanthri that he prospered, even when playing characters who only vaguely reminded us of him, such as the antihero of Sikuru Hathe.

Many years ago, I watched a mini series on Rupavahini revolving around a politician and his driver. Vijaya Nandasiri played the politician, Vasantha Kumarasiri’s driver. Early on I sensed something odd about them. Their voices were different. The dubbing team had synced one actor’s voice with the other, a trick that survived the first 10 minutes of the first episode, after which these two meet a horrible accident that (inexplicably) leaves onlookers and relatives confused as to whose body belongs to whom.

Both are near dying. A quick surgery is hence followed by a quick plastic surgery, in which the wrong face is placed on the wrong body. The voices now revert to the correct actor. In hindsight this was an unnecessary gimmick, but also a useful trick, since for the rest of the story the driver becomes the believer in authority and the politician the believer in Marxist politics. Crude, and rather one-dimensional, but fun. And it wasn’t just a change of voice: it was also a change of spirit, of two contradictory personalities transplanted to each other. That was Nandasiri’s charm. You could never anticipate anyone other than him when he was there. For the mini series to work, hence, he had to be himself.

If Joe was redeemable because he was at the receiving end of some confusing dilemma (like the baby he raises in Punchi Baba, or the lifestyle in Colombo he gets used to in Kolamba Sanniya, Vijaya was unredeemable because he was at the other end, always provoking if not unleashing some havoc. It’s not a coincidence that, in this respect, his characters were always middle class, consumerist, very often in professions that called for security, stability, and status: as a Junior Visualiser in an ad agency in Yes Boss, as the chief in a security firm in Sir Last Chance, and as a police sergeant in Magodi Godayi. These symbolised a lifestyle that Nandasiri’s antiheroes sought to subvert and to defy.

Where he was his own man – the magul kapuwa in Sikuru Hathe or Rajamanthri in so many movies and serials – he wasn’t a provocateur, but a lovable antihero. And like all antiheroes, he conceals goodness because he despises it: in Sikuru Hathe, for instance, he commits one deception after another for his family’s sake, especially his daughter’s.

Where he was paired with another actor, I think, Nandasiri failed. He was his man, so when in Methuma he and Sriyantha Mendis are mistaken for two lunatics by a veda mahaththaya in a village, he could not really shine the way he had in Ethuma. Even in Magodi Godayi, he was less than he usually was whenever he was opposite Gamini Susiriwardana. Yes Boss and Nonawarune Mahathwarune had him among a plethora of other actors, to be sure, but then he was on his own there. There are moments in Yes Boss when Lucky Dias nearly outshines him. But Nandasiri gets back on track; he exerts his dominance again.

In other words, Nandasiri could give his best only if his co-star was alive to his range, or if his character was of a lesser pedigree than his co-star. That is what happens in King Hunther, where he could be himself opposite Mahendra Perera for two reasons: because Mahendra was a fairly good comic actor himself, and because Nandasiri’s character, Hunther, hails from such a different world that the present (in which Mahendra is an escaped convict) appears outlandish to him. Hunther to get used to this world, and that means getting used to the first two people he befriends: Mahendra and Anarkali Akarsha.

Vijaya Nandasiri’s ultimate triumph was his gift at getting us to feel for unfeeling antiheroes. Sometimes he could trump us, as Abeywickrema often did, like in King Hunther, when he hears that the politician who befriends him to further his career has decided to kill him off, and surreptitiously escapes. You never thought he was capable of upping the antagonist, but he does just that, providing us with the final twist in the story.

He couldn’t behave this way as Rajamanthri because he was not reflecting our contempt for figures of authority, but downright embodying it. When, towards the end of Suhada Koka, he is killed off by an assassin acting on the orders of the second-in-command to the Prime Minister (the latter played by W. Jayasiri), the film preaches to us a homily on the corrupting influence of power, a warning for all politicians. But then, just as you come to terms with this conclusion, he wakes up; the whole scene, it turns out, was a nightmare.

Ordinarily, you’d think he would learn from such a nightmare. But he doesn’t. Even after that harrowing fantasy, he is soon back to being the pompous figure he always was. Yet in that brief sequence he told us everything that needed to be told about how the corrupt remain corrupt, and how irredeemable they are. Was it a cruel coincidence, then, that the only time Rajamanthri was killed off like that marked the last time Vijaya Nandasiri played Rajamanthri? We may never know, but perhaps it was more than a coincidence. Perhaps it was the only fitting end to such a career that could be filmed.The writer is an international relations analyst, researcher, and columnist who can be reached at

Continue Reading


22A: Composition of CC problematic; ensures government domination



By Dr. Jayampathy Wickramaratne
President’s Counsel

The Wickremesinghe-Rajapaksa government’s new Twenty-Second Amendment to the Constitution Bill was presented to Parliament on 10 August 2022. The earlier Bill, which was published in the Gazette in June 2022, lapsed as it was not presented before the recent prorogation of Parliament.

The August Bill is an improvement on the June Bill from a Nineteenth Amendment perspective. Under 19A, Ministers and Deputy Ministers were appointed by the President on the advice of the Prime Minister. This was done away with by the Twentieth Amendment. The June Bill sought to bring back the requirement of the Prime Minister’s advice, but that provision would not apply during the present Parliament. The August Bill does not have such an exception.

According to the June Bill, where the President is of the opinion that the Prime Minister has lost the confidence of the present Parliament, the Prime Minister can be removed. Such a provision is not found in the August Bill.

Under 19A, the Speaker, Prime Minister and Leader of the Opposition were ex officio members of the Constitutional Council (CC), while the President would nominate one MP. Five persons were nominated jointly by the Prime Minister and the Leader of the Opposition, two of them being MPs. In making such nominations, they were required to consult the leaders of political parties and independent groups represented in Parliament to ensure that the CC reflects the pluralistic character of Sri Lankan society, including professional and social diversity. One MP was nominated by the MPs belonging to parties other than those to which the Prime Minister and the Leader of the Opposition belonged. The three persons from outside Parliament shall be persons of eminence and integrity who have distinguished themselves in public or professional life and who are not members of any political party. Parliament shall approve their nomination. In practice, such approval was a mere formality as they were nominated jointly and after a consultative process.

The August Bill, like the June Bill, proposes the re-establishment of the CC but makes a crucial change. The five persons referred to are not appointed pursuant to the joint nomination of the Prime Minister and the Leader of the Opposition. One MP is nominated by the Government Parliamentary Group, and the other MP is nominated by the party to which the Leader of the Opposition belongs. The three persons from outside are nominated not jointly by the Prime Minister and the Leader of the Opposition but by the Speaker in consultation with them. The smaller parties are not consulted.

This deviation from 19A gives rise to several issues. If the Speaker is partisan (and there have been several such Speakers), the Government could ensure that all three CC members from outside are their own nominees. The Government, by virtue of its majority, would have no difficulty getting Parliamentary approval. The smaller parties would have no say in the nomination of these three persons. Thus, in the current Parliament, parties such as the TNA, NPP, EPDP, TNPF etc., who together account for twenty-five MPs, would not be consulted.

The 22A Bill says that in nominating the two MPs and the three persons from outside Parliament, Members of Parliament shall ensure that the CC reflects the pluralist character of Sri Lankan society. This would be most difficult as they would be nominated by separate processes. Under 19A, on the other hand, that was ensured as the nomination was jointly by the Prime Minister and the Leader of the Opposition after consulting the leaders of all parties in Parliament.

The composition of the CC is of crucial importance for the achievement of a national consensus on high-level appointments. The approval of the CC is a pre-requisite for the appointment of judges of the Supreme Court and Court of Appeal and appointments to high positions such as the Attorney-General and the Inspector-General of Police. Appointments to independent Commissions are made on the recommendation of the CC. As the other seven members of the CC are all Members of Parliament and may be swayed by political considerations, the three members who are appointed from outside have a vital role to play. They should be persons acceptable to all and who can have a moderating influence on the politicians.

An argument that has been adduced by the Government is that the Prime Minister and the Leader of the Opposition may not agree on the to be nominated jointly. No such issue arose both under the Seventeenth and Nineteenth Amendments. Members of Parliament nominated jointly acted with responsibility. Distinguished personalities appointed by joint nomination included Justice Dr A.R.B. Amarasinghe, Professor Colvin Gunaratne, Dr Jayantha Dhanapala, A.T. Ariyaratne, Shibley Aziz, and Dr Radhika Coomaraswamy, Javid Yusuf and Professor N. Selvakkumaran.

That the Prime Minister and the Leader of the Opposition may not agree is no reason to give the power of appointment to the Speaker. The writer proposes that the 19A provisions be re-enacted with the addition that if the Prime Minister and the Leader of the Opposition do not agree on the nominees within a stipulated period, the Speaker will make the nominations in consultation with the Prime Minister, the Leader of the Opposition and the leaders of the smaller parties.

Continue Reading